Last week, aged 26, I bought myself my first pair of shoes. Before now, I have relied on the Magic Shoe Fairy to deliver a pair of brogues or boots at Christmas. I get through shoes at an alarming rate, based on a shambling gait inexplicable to science, and an unfortunate habit of treading down the backs rather than putting them on properly.

But glancing down at my last pair on my way into work, I snapped. I realised that the size of the holes, the copious scuffing and the ominous looks from fellow passengers was making my shoes indistinguishable from those worn by the tramps and crackheads outside Victoria Station. I made a beeline for M&S. But as pleased as I was with my grown-up purchase, they brought a familiar and horrible rubbing. By the time I reached Old Queen Street, I was hobbling like a veteran from the Somme. Is there anything more painful than wearing in new shoes?

When I asked this on Twitter, I received a few alternative suggestions. ‘Getting kicked in the balls by an angry girlfriend’ was one. ‘Getting your foreskin stuck in your zipper’ was another. (I’m unwilling to disclose whether either is an experience that I am familiar with.) Others expressed solidarity. ‘It took weeks with my last pair.’ ‘A new pair of Docs are like being subjected to torture.’ ‘Attempted to break some in at Labour conference. Terrible decision.’ Traipsing up to Liverpool for the leftie love-in must be hellish enough. Why add new shoes to the mix?

But most responses were unsympathetic, pinning the blame for my painful feet on me. ‘Try wearing some stilettos next time, Will!’ Clearly, they were unfamiliar with my brief but triumphant turn in drag – ‘Hello, boys!’ – as Ginger Spice at a party and Hillary Clinton at a school debate.

‘Surely you have a flunky to wear in your new shoes for you first?’ came another, with great illusions about my social status. A misconception shared by Lord Moylan: ‘If you buy expensive shoes, they don’t need wearing in and last a long time. Cheap shoes are a curse. Better go unshod.’

When I revealed that I had paid £85, he suggested that I should be spending £500 up. If he wanted me to have that sort of money, he should ask one of his Lords colleagues to give me a pay rise. The most damning response was from a former editor, a man I thought a friend: ‘I’m just amazed you’ve bought new shoes.’ Am I really that scruffy?

Amid the excoriation, there were a few offers of help. ‘Beat the heels down with a tablespoon for half an hour. Take two sheets of kitchen roll per foot and fold into a rudimentary heel-guard.’ When that doesn’t work? ‘Buy a shoe tree.’ Or ‘switch to wearing boots’. ChatGPT wasn’t helpful, repeating bromides about keeping shoes on around the house, protecting ‘likely rubbing points’ and making sure they’re the right size. I considered buying some leather conditioner from Timpson. But I’m too scared to go in again, after I once tried to make small talk with an employee by asking what he’d done time for. How was I to know that only one in ten of their staff had convictions?

Ahead of me lies a bleak future of rubbing for weeks ahead, my toes reduced to bloodied stumps, the price of justifying my expensive step into adulthood. Or I can resort to my traditional approach: treading down the backs, ruining them in four months, and hoping the Magic Shoe Fairy is feeling generous come December. Sorry, Mum.